


there's no light in you anymore

by Ivaleen



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Azran Legacy Spoilers, Character Development, Hurt No Comfort, Infanticide, Leon being a horrible father, Murder, POV Antagonist, ah yes im basically the one who started it, i do level-5's job in their stead as usual, let's all write about leon being a horrible father he gets what he deserves, or an attempt, struggles, there's a tag for leon being a horrible father and it makes me scream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28679526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivaleen/pseuds/Ivaleen
Summary: Leon Bronev spends all his time fighting his inner demons, until he becomes the very one he despised.A character study of Bronev, and how he slowly started to embody Targent's violence and corruption. Also, an AU (because you get more than you bargained for).
Relationships: Leon Bronev & Desmond Sycamore, Leon Bronev & Hershel Bronev
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	there's no light in you anymore

**Author's Note:**

> (this work is a translation, with some add-ons).

Every day, Leon Bronev was fighting against his demons.

Ever since he’d been forced to join Targent, the only thing that had kept him going was the memory of his family, and the desire—the hope—to see them again, someday. Anything he’d do, it would be _for_ his family. To make them proud; to show them that in spite of whatever trials he had to go through, he was still here.

But as days were going by, he started thinking that he could be trapped forever here. He had hoped that by agreeing to their every request, he could eventually end up being freed. Lead a normal life. Forget every awful thing he had to watch. They’d all be reunited, and everything would be ok. He’d let archaeology down, and everything would be ok.

He had considered giving up on archaeology. Though it had been his biggest passion, and no matter how many successes it had brought him, everything had changed. What are we to do when our passion tears us from the ones we love? Is it necessary (legitimate, even) to sacrifice everything for the sake of endless years of suffering?

Ten years prior, he wouldn’t have faced such a dilemma. Neither would he have five years prior. But here he was now; the oh-so passionate archaeologist, vehemently abhorring archaeology. If it wasn’t for the Azran, he wouldn’t have lost his children and his wife. There wouldn’t have been the pleasure of discovering ancient yet magnificent ruins, either, nor the prestige following every discovery, but still, at least he would have his family by his side. As soon as he realized what it meant to have been following such a path, nothing ever mattered any longer. Actually, it had never truly mattered. If only he had noticed it before everything started to collapse.

Locked up in his new workplace – the one he could never get used to – in the middle of the Nest, he had no choice but to work. Though he hated archaeology, his only concern was work. Life often has its contradictions. To release himself from such a burden, he had to keep on living with it. He had to find a way to convince himself that the release that would eventually be all the more enjoyable.

He had considered maybe once or twice getting away, getting free of these chains when no one would notice. He’d come up with a plan, deceiving the organization as a whole, and he’d escape. He’d escape, let all this pain and suffering behind him and never think about it again and never come back and run away far away so far away. He’d run away with his family. He’d never look back once. All of his sufferings would eventually be forgotten. No matter how hard he wished for such an outcome, he had come to terms with the fact that it was impossible. He couldn’t jeopardize his family’s safety just for the sake of ‘freedom’. What a life it would have been! Leading a life of survival. Be forced to look behind them all the time, just to get ready for a surprise attack. They would never, ever be left in peace. The enemy could have been anywhere, anytime. It wouldn’t have been an escape; it would’ve been damnation. So indeed, he had to rule out such an outcome. He wanted to keep his family out of harm’s way, even if it meant he would sacrifice his happiness, his decency—sacrifice himself and everything he’d ever been, everything he was, everything he could have been.

* * *

Some years had passed, and every question he used to ponder day and night was no more. He had become the enemy.

He’d sworn to himself, to his family, to anyone who could hear him that he would never yield. He would never become a monster, mad for power, such as his fellow workers. He would never become a shadow of his former self. How could he ever _give everything away_ for the sake of some _material goals_? How could he ever think of assaulting innocent children, innocent wives, innocent husbands, for the sake of lost secrets? How could he tear apart someone else’s life when his _own life_ had been torn apart, shattered in pieces? It was not a possible outcome.

And yet.

He _was_ the enemy now. He was soon to become the new leader of Targent. Years had passed, struggles had been dealt with, and nothing ever worked. By trying to get rid of an excruciating fate, he’d only proceeded to seal it. He’d never be able to leave Targent. Reaching his goals, figuring out the secrets the Azran had left—at first, it seemed to hard, too time-consuming. But he was the best archaeologist Targent had ever seen. He had too much potential to quit. And now nothing was obscure anymore; now everything was settled. His burning desire to get what he sacrificed everything for determined his fate. Slowly, he’d become the shadow he’d previously feared. He did not belong to the light anymore. There was no light anymore in him, only shadows, and pieces of despair. No humanity either.

But struggled he still did. His demons were still by his side. There was still that voice ringing in his ear, imploring him to spare his family, the ones he used to care about so much it had been a reason for living. The voice didn’t leave him alone, ever. But no matter—if he was to achieve his goals, then he’d have to dispose of the one standing in his way.

Desmond Sycamore.

Or rather, Hershel Bronev. His own flesh and blood.

Many other possibilities had been flowing in his head—even with so little humanity left in him, he was still tortured—but nothing had satisfied him more.

Hershel was nothing more than an obstacle. He knew his son better than anyone; if he didn’t act quickly, then Targent’s goal would end up shattered. Everything would be out of the picture. He couldn’t afford to let something like that happen, not after all these years. Targent would lose his sole purpose as well; after all, they all had been trained so they could discover the Azran’s secrets. And so he decided to sacrifice his son instead of his research—his son would be the one wiped out of the picture.

But when he understood he needed to get rid of him, he started sinking into madness—or perhaps he had been mad the whole time.

He had to convince himself that Hershel Bronev was no more; it was Desmond Sycamore he was going to eliminate. Not Hershel. He sacrificed nights and days to acknowledge the truth his mind had conceived for him. If he was certain Hershel didn’t exist anymore, then there wouldn’t be any stupid obstacle preventing him to reach his goals. He now believed his own thoughts to be stupid, futile, unnecessary. Now that madness had started consuming him, he wanted to get rid of every feeling who reminded him of his humanity, of his weaknesses. _Why should I_ _tortur_ _e_ _myself over pointless and childish emotions,_ he often wondered. These feelings only distracted him from his fate.

Eventually, he acknowledged that his son had to die. It was for the ‘greater good’. It was the only way for him to unravel the secrets of the Azran. His fate was to commit one of the most heinous crimes a man could ever have to commit—infanticide. So be it.

It was too late to go back.

* * *

There was nothing difficult in his plan. Finding the address of the Sycamore residence had been child’s play, as well. Break into their house would have to be as easy.

The sky was dark, the weather stormy. His sunglasses were useless, but he had no intention of taking them off. Sometimes, people asked him about them—he never bothered to answer. Why should it matter?

But if he _did_ have to answer, he’d say that he started wearing them the day he decided he would let go of his past. Let go of his memories. His eye color reminded him too much of _who_ he was; he did not want to be confronted to such an image anymore. Though all these things would never have to be said.

And that day, nothing was different. He didn’t want to see his son’s look reflected in his own eyes.

 _Nothing_ had to distract him from his fate.

Sooner that he’d predicted, his son—no, Desmond Sycamore—was standing in front of him. This moment was perfect for wearing his sunglasses; he thought he’d finally found a _true_ purpose for wearing them. This way, he was sure to study every single emotion coming from Sycamore, without Sycamore realizing it. Without Sycamore being allowed to do the same. A considerable advantage indeed.

“I see your new life has been full of success.”

He could say everything he wanted. He didn’t feel remorse, he didn’t feel joy; actually, he didn’t feel anything. The only thing in his head was _go and fulfill your goals he has to disappear_ _– go now there are more pressing matters at hand._ There was a smile on his lips, however; a smile that did not disappear.

Sycamore was so weak. Fear was the only thing he could ever manage.

He was so helpless. So… vulnerable. It would only be easier.

He entertained himself by stating the obvious—he wanted to dig Sycamore’s grave so that no one else would have to do it when he’d be gone—and so he kept repeating how he was weak until the other couldn’t believe anything else. He’d started thinking that it was distracting to see his opponents struggle with what strength they had left, or had not, for that matter.

In his fear, Sycamore didn’t see his father holding a gun. His plan was flawless and everything was planned. He’d keep on playing with his opponent’s weaknesses, and then he’d get the job done. He insisted on making his intentions clear, though he would never state them. He _wanted_ him… his enemy… no, his son to understand what awaited him next.

Desmond Sycamore’s end was only the beginning for Leon Bronev.

He did not hesitate to pull the trigger; he’d fired without holding back. There was nothing to hold back anyway.

As soon as Sycamore had taken his last breath, he left. There was nothing more to enjoy. He left the way he entered; except that, this time, his hands weren’t empty anymore.

In one hand, he firmly held the documents he was seeking.

His other hand was forever scarred with the memory of the crime he’d just committed.


End file.
